


Sleeping Pattern

by fuckyeahlucifersupernatural



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:33:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's grateful for this small source of relief that makes the facing of the last trial less impossible and more possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Pattern

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of service. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copyright infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

This second trial is killing him. 

It’s a struggle just to stay up. Sam has to focus intently on each step he makes, every move has to be calculated because that’s energy being expended and he feels as if he has so little of it. Dean pleaded with him to lay down for a few hours and grudgingly he took his brother’s advice, crawling onto the bed until he’s flopping down on it on his belly. 

His skin feels hot. When the fever gets too much he wakes up in bed, more exhausted and sweating through his clothes. At times the frustration of not being able to sleep makes him grit his teeth, groaning darkly in the blackness of his room. So it comes as a coming relief when he feels fingers intertwine with his when his fever makes it nearly impossible to fall asleep. Compared to his flushed and hot skin, these fingers are blessed relief. 

It must be Dean. Sam’s too relieved to mumble his complaint that Dean is being too soft, falling back asleep quickly. 

Sam wakes up feeling relatively better than before, shooting Dean a warm smile over breakfast, earning a surprised but pleased look by the older Winchester. 

The next night he finds those fingers curling into his and Sam squeezes the hand back in a sign of gratitude. 

It becomes a habit. One that Sam comes to expect and he’ll sleep on his stomach, head turned to the side with his right hand stretched out. Whenever his skin begins to heat up, cool fingers would slide across his palm and fingers would intertwine. He’d find the fever abate and sleep come easier. There are now times where his temperature is level but those fingers come regardless, a small reassurance that puts him to sleep like a silent lullaby. 

One night Sam bends his arm and pulls the hand closer to him, trapping it under the weight of his chest and the mattress underneath. Sam can feel Dean’s frame press against his side, can feel a shoulder and Sam turns his head to try to make out the outline of his brother. Yet in the darkness he can’t even make the shape of his head. Before Sam can squint, can open his mouth to mumble out a ‘thank you,’ he feels his eyes slide shut. 

Sam’s always relatively impressed by how ignorant Dean acts of the matter come the next day. He gushes over the bathtub and prods about for hunts, making small comments here and there that Sam does look better. Whenever Sam would comment on it and turn to thank him, Dean snorts and peers over the newspaper with a snarky response either going like this: 

“Tch, says the dude who refuses to eat my soup. Which I slave over, FYI.” 

Or 

“Still think going to the doctor may not be such a bad thing. Not like we have Leviathans milling about with stethoscopes anymore.” 

The first inklings of doubt are beginning to settle in, no longer one hundred percent that the person sharing his bed at night is Dean. Which sounds bizarre enough when he says it in his head but it has become a crutch. A soothing crutch that sinks him to a dreamless sleep, no longer plagued with these reoccurring nightmares of him dying before he can finish the third trial. Sam knows he’s not healing. He knows that he’s just getting a good night sleep because he still spits blood when he brushes his teeth and if you listen close enough there’s a wheeze when he breathes in. But being able to get a good night’s rest makes dealing with his ailments easier than before and better to hide from his observant brother. 

Stretching out on the bed, he opts to stay on his back tonight, hand stretched out expectantly under the covers with his eyes closed. He waits. Ears straining to hear the sound of footsteps or the sound of his door opening. Instead the sound the A/C kicks in and Sam remains without contact for half an hour. When fingers curl around his, he curls his fingers in return, turning his head. 

Still unending darkness and Sam boldly turns on his side, scooting further until he can feel knees bump against his. It bothers him he can’t see an outline of a body. Bothers he doesn’t know. 

“Dean?” he asks softly and he’s answered with silence. When he reaches out with his spare hand he touches nothing. His fingers grope about, trying to find the solidness of a body before him but the more he searches the fainter the grip becomes on his other hand. When panic seizes him, Sam fails to notice that the fingers once curled around his faded altogether. 

Sam’s scrambling off the bed for the light, flipping it on to find only twisted sheets. 

The Winchester finds himself falling back into uneasy fits of sleep, the fever surging back to life and causing him to be mostly disoriented and weak. He can’t sleep in his bed. So he opts to wandering about at night across the headquarters, laying down on the couch before jerking back into wakefulness to walk about some more. Blood is more apparent now and he was earned with a menacing glare when he coughed on Dean’s photos of a case they just solved, specks of red dashed about the black and white photo. 

He was banned to his room and there Sam forced himself to sleep. It came uneasy and he wrapped himself in a cocoon where his hands are pinned to his frame. There’s no cool hand to find his and when he does awake, there’s only an added weight on his chest. He feels heavier and slow. Pushing his way out of his room, he peers hazily at Dean who’s seated at the table. 

“Just give me five minutes with the clippers,” Dean is pleading and Sam finds him grooming himself, attempting to tame the bad case of bed head. He slept for a day and a half and he feels worse. It doesn’t help he has to prove himself to be capable in this case and failing in the end. The third trial is somewhere out there and Sam feels less prepared and there’s an ugly acceptance that he will die. He’s going to die. There won’t be any divine intervention that’ll pull him back to life. Even Castiel voiced it himself that he was beyond repair. He was broken goods being more broken by these trials but if he could save just one, that’s enough for him. 

Charlie’s case only makes him tired. He’s so slow on his feet that some punk of a jinn got a few good shots in that send his gut twisting hard. Just trudging down the stairs to get back into the safety of the headquarters leaves his shoulders hunched and a headache forming behind his eye. It’s difficult to function like this already without being acutely aware of your own mortality. 

He gives in. Crawls back into bed and kicks his shoes off, sticking his hand out expectantly. Nothing comes to reach for him. 

Sam stretches his fingers out further, as if somehow that may work but there is no response. He’s so goddamned tired and he needs this. Just needs that brief moment of relief. Something to quell the headache. Something to make him feel less tired. Something to make him forget that he spends the majority of his days now staring at his own blood and unable to do anything about it. 

“Please?” he asks. 

This time cool fingers push his hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear before they’re slipping against his palm. Sam keeps his eyes closed, breathing in and out slowly, feeling a thumb rub the back of his hand. Sam doesn’t feel like he’ll find a conversation or truly get to find out who this is, but he has a hunch. He’s too tired and too relieved to be repulsed, just grateful for this form of relief that came because it could. 

“Thank you...for this,” he speaks nonetheless, feeling the hand squeeze his. Sam nods, swallowing thickly. He twists onto his side, keeping the hand with him, feeling something press against his back. Cool air hits the back of his neck, stirring his hair and Sam can’t fight the tired chuckle when it tickles him. That hand squeezes again and Sam can’t help but squeeze back, keeping that hand pinned to him before his eyelids feel heavy once more. 

This time when he wakes up, he still feels this phantom weight pressed against him before it’s gently pulling away. Sam knows he’ll find it again, pushing his way out of the room feeling considerably lighter and assured. Finding Dean at the table, he takes a seat.

He rubs at his eyes and stares at the plate of scrambled eggs before him, parting a hand to grab at the fork sitting beside it. “You look good, man,” Dean’s voice filters through with surprise and Sam turns his head up, shooting him a half-smile. “Better than yesterday. Don’t have the whole bags under your eyes and the -- uh -- shaggy bed head look of doom.” Dean jabs a finger at the direction of Sam’s head and the younger Winchester snorts in humor.

“Feel good. Think I’ll be back on my feet soon,” Sam ventures, looking at Dean for the first signs of disapproval or protest. Instead Dean nods his head, grabbing his cup of coffee. 

“Sounds good to me. Be nice to have you at your A-game again. See, nothing that sleep can’t solve, eh?” 

Sam pushes food into his mouth, smiling to himself at Dean’s comment. He couldn’t agree more.

**Author's Note:**

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